Shortfall
by Ravager Zero
Summary: Titanfall AU with some characters based off Frozen. Elizabeth Stroud fights for the IMC, but after a Militia raid in the Yuma system, she's starting to have second thoughts. Based on the campaign storyline in the game, with additional world building on the side. Rated M for violence and coarse language. Disclaimer: Frozen belongs to Disney; Titanfall to Respawn Entertainment.
1. The Refueling Raid

**AN:** Hi everyone… this something that probably should not have been done, but I just had to get the idea down on paper so it stopped bugging me. Welcome to the Frozen Titanfall (& EVE/DUST) AU. There will be much fighting—which is to be expected given it's based off an FPS after all. I'm still not sure it translates too well to the page, but I gave it my best shot. Hopefully you'll enjoy it.

The story will follow the actual campaign as closely as is reasonably possible, and each chapter will be based around one of the missions in said campaign. In total that means I should wind up with 9 chapters, and most likely an epilogue.

* * *

Sergeant Elizabeth Stroud had one hand on the coaming around the portside hatch on the IMC Goblin dropship designated Zulu One while her other hand gripped a C.A.R. submachine-gun. Along with three other Pilots in the same dropship she had been tasked to team two. Two more Pilots followed in Zulu Two. Fifteen seconds earlier they had arrived over the Fracture facility via short range jump. The hatch had opened and Graves had the pilot circle the perimeter of the facility. It was an old pumping station, but the machinery was fully functional, and had appropriate transmission gear to send any processed fuel into orbit—either via tender, or direct warpfall conduit.

One of the other pilots nudged her, and Sergeant Stroud noticed that Vice Admiral Graves had begun talking. He had to shout to make himself heard of the wash of the Goblin's VTOL engines.

"In space, fuel is life, and the Militia Fleet is running low. Only seven planets in the Yuma system can replenish a fleet of that size. This is one of them. We've set up turrets, like this one, just in case the Milita decide to pay this site a visit," Graves waved towards a heavy auto-turret atop a large, open building with a collapsed roof. "That's Charlie"—he waved out to a half buried control complex, and those on the dropship could just make out the bunker entrances to the complex—"this one's Bravo."

"Vice Admiral Graves, Zulu Three shows multiple jump signatures three klicks out," the dropship pilot's voice cut across the intercom. Graves response was immediate.

"Blisk, tell Riggs to get his squad on the deck—now."

Three Militia Crow Dropships jumped in formation, micro-jump drives still cooling as the boom of their entry echoed across the landscape. All three made a low altitude pass over Charlie, hovering above the terrace. The auto-turret froze in place, deactivating before it could track even halfway towards the dropships. Three Pilots fell from each of the leading Crows, while a full squad of Militia Grunts ziplined from the trailing dropship.

All three Zulu dropships had hovered around a long, low building with another Goblin sitting on the landing pad, surrounded by maintenance equipment. Between that structure, reinforced with a heavy auto-turret, and a half-destroyed IMC control center, captain Riggs was booting his Titan. The captain curled into a ball as the Titan's massive hand lifted and deposited him in the Atlas's cockpit.

"Come on Elsa—Stroud—boots on ground," Corporal Duke Laski clapped her on the arm as he leapt from the dropship, stirring up a small dust cloud upon landing. Sergeant Stroud followed him a moment later, landing so softly she barely disturbed the grass beneath her feet. She knew Laski would be the one to find the only barren patch beneath the dropship. He was just like that. Blisk's voice echoed over the comm.

"Sir, our forces have assembled at rally point Alpha."

Graves stood in the open hatch of the slowly ascending Goblin. "Pilots, today, you have a chance to establish peace on the Frontier. Make it count!"

Elsa was already sprinting as she heard the familiar whip-whumpf of dropships departing via short range jump. Her weapon was braced at the ready even though she was sprinting at full speed towards a large pair of generator housings. Powerfully enhanced legs launched her halfway up, and a quick blast from her jetpack finished the ascent. An instant later she was leaping onto a nearby balcony, sweeping instinctively for both hostiles and useful paths. With the former absent, she launched herself at the wall to her left, jetpack putting out a constant thrust to keep her steady against the surface. She still hadn't surrendered any momentum. To her, motion was life, and she planned to live.

She still planned to live when five Hemlok rounds ripped through her left side, spraying the roof beneath her with bright red blood. She stumbled and rolled, hitting her Stim booster as she rose, Adrenaline coursing through her veins, fast-burn nanites knitting her skin and organs back together as she launched herself from the edge of the roof towards a rocky precipice, a blast from her jetpack just enough to carry her to the lip, quickly using her arms to scramble up onto the dusty surface. A line of impacts cratered the dirt beside her, and Elsa launched herself at the cliff face behind her, sprinting for the transport array in front of her before leaping sideways into nothingness, fifty feet from the ground. Blisk's voice crackled in her ear.

"Hardpoint Bravo's in that building up ahead. Get inside and patch me into the terminal."

She somersaulted in mid-air, using her jetpack to sail closer to the bunker entrance of Bravo, on the grassy hill beneath her. Another blast from her jetpack ensured she hit the ground at a survivable speed before she dived through the entrance. She managed a quick sweep, her gun following her gaze, firing instinctively as she saw the Militia Pilot raise his weapon. Three rounds made it downrange before a wall of lead slammed into her chest and stomach, and Elsa knew no amount of Stim would be bringing her back from this one. Her body hit the floor with a wet thud, but her mind was already gone.

There was a violent disconnect, a surge of light and sound reaching an insane crescendo, and suddenly Elsa was sucking in a deep breath, her body whole and complete—and different. She grunted, rubbing her side at a phantom pain, and lifted another C.A.R. from the rack, strapping a P2011 pistol to her right hip as she slung the submachine-gun over her shoulder. An Archer missile launcher was the final element of her weaponry, also slung across her back as she gripped the C.A.R. and racked the slide, barreling into the warpfall conduit at the far side of the chamber. She landed just outside Charlie, on terraced, overgrown steps. Blisk's tactical update rang in her ears.

"All units, the turrets are online for Charlie. The _Redeye_ is taking some heavy damage." It was followed shortly thereafter with: "We just lost Alpha."

Elsa took off at a dead run, charging through Charlie, past the terminal, and through a lower level corridor out to the verdant expanse between there and Bravo. She made a split second decision to avoid the exposed hilltop, despite the path between a slightly damaged building offering an excellent vantage point. She was a runner, not a marksman. She burst through the entrance to the unmarked bunker, barely noticing the floor, and a painting fallen from the wall to her right. There was a shimmering movement ahead of her, and her gun rattled, spitting lead as she sprinted into the fray.

The Militia Pilot fell without a sound, blood pouring from a dozen impacts on his chest, his weapon skittering across the floor of the bunker. He'd had no chance, but, like her, he would be back in the fight in seconds. Both the IMC and the Militia had Ripcord technology—the ability to create an instantaneous engram upload that contained everything a person ever was, and download it into the next available body. Pilots were immortal, their minds deathless, beyond even the enhanced capabilities of their flash-cloned and gene-enhanced bodies.

Another Milita Pilot sprinted from the upper exit of Bravo, leveling her R101 Carbine at Elsa. Both Pilots fired at the same time, Elsa hitting her Stim, and blasting forwards, throwing off the Militia Pilot's aim while maintaining her own. The other woman dropped in a hail of lead, letting out a small whimper as her body collapsed. Elsa surged onwards, scanning the entrance before vaulting the balcony to get within range of the hardpoint terminal below. Spyglass began the counter-hacking procedure immediately—simultaneously giving her a status update on her Titan. Two minutes before she was cleared for Titanfall.

She sprinted for the ruins between Bravo and Alpha, hearing Blisk's call for Pilots to defend the hardpoint. Jetpack pinning her to the high wall, she sprinted forward, Stim active, and was firing before her mind fully registered the pair of Militia Pilots in front of her, diving for the lower entrance to Alpha. The first pilot fell like a sack of bricks, the second turning, Spitfire LMG already roaring. Elsa dived sideways, a round still catching her in the shoulder. She drew her pistol as she rose, C.A.R. mag empty, and fired on the run, bullets kicking up the dirt behind her. With her free hand she tossed an arc grenade for good measure, and the Spitfire armed Pilot finally fell.

Blisk's tactical updates cut across the network, informing her that both Alpha and Charlie had fallen to the Militia's hackers. That meant the fleet in orbit was taking on fuel at an enormous rate, despite the damage being inflicted against it. Full ships had to be jumping out, cycling new ships in to suckle at the planet's resources. The _Redeye_ was still taking damage, but it was far from serious yet. Elsa sprinted through the door to Alpha's terminal, then launched herself at the wall, hanging on in midair with the help of her grip-gloves and jetpack. She swept the mezzanine with her gun, and found it thankfully empty. The hardpoint was back in IMC hands, and she could hear the heavy auto-turret overhead banging away at the fleet above.

"You Titan is ready to drop," Spyglass's smooth, artificial voice echoed in her ear. "Signal when ready."

Elsa threw the signal beacon out the balcony door ahead of her, uplink instantly established with the IMC _Sentinel_ in low orbit. Diving out the window she looked up, a pinprick of fire arcing through the sky above her. Five. She cleared her C.A.R. and leapt from the balcony. The trail of fire grew larger, thick smoke visible as it fell. Four. She fired the jetpack and flew through the air, landing just short of the projected fall zone. Three. The pod overhead split into four, like a violent flower revealing itself to the world. What was left of the heat shield would burn up before it hit the ground. Two. The Ogre continued to fall, onboard AI bracing the reinforced leg joints against the coming shock. One. The Titan slammed to the ground, making everything shake and stirring up a large cloud of dust and debris. The dome shield flickered to life, enfolding the Titan within its impenetrable embrace.

Elsa darted through the shield, the harmonic signature of her jumpsuit allowing her safe passage. She grabbed the rail on the side of the cockpit, using it to throw herself into the pilot's seat. The hatch closed with a soft hiss, and as the display booted up the massive Ogre drew the Plasma Railgun slung over its back and loaded the first power cell.

"AI offline, Pilot mode engaged."

"Alright Marshmallow, let's do this!" And the Ogre took off at a ponderous run, slowly building momentum as Elsa began searching for targets. There, in the distance, between the buildings bracketing hardpoint Bravo. A Stryder, shields low. The Plasma Railgun hissed and cracked as it fired, a trail of superheated, ionized air following the packet of charged particles, back-tracing to the muzzle of the weapon. Downrange the round impacted the Stryder's reactor with enough force to make the Titan stagger sideways, critically damaged. A sweep of her hand and caressing a different trigger sent a quartet of Multi-Target missiles streaking towards the Stryder. It dashed sideways at the last second, missiles slamming into the building facade behind the Titan. In return it fired a heavy cluster missile straight at Elsa.

Her vortex shield caught it, and redirected it towards a squad of Militia grunts, but by then the Stryder had popped smoke and disappeared behind a building. Elsa didn't catch which one, so she strode forward purposefully, ground shaking with every step her Titan took. She was thundering over Bravo before she realized it was being taken. A dash and a snap turn saw her Ogre sail over the destroyed entrance, facing into the bunker. Crouching to get a better view, she sighted on a Militia Pilot who thought she was hidden behind the hardpoint terminal. When the railgun round hit her, there was nothing left, just a red mist.

Elsa thumped a button on the side of her cockpit, and it hissed open, allowing her to disembark. The Titan's AI automatically took over, stepping back and sweeping for nearby enemies. Elsa skirted the terminal, watching the progress on her HUD as Spyglass once more hacked the hardpoint, disabling the fuel pumps and re-engaging the turrets. Blisk's voice crackled across the tactical network.

"Well done Pilots, the _Redeye's_ at 75% hull integrity and decreasing."

Elsa sprinted from the bunker, launching herself at her Titan, now facing away from her and engaging an enemy Atlas. She landed hard, sliding between the Ogre's legs as it lowered a hand to scoop her up, heavily armoured fingers protecting her as she was deposited safely in the cockpit. Chaingun rounds rattled off the hull as the Atlas closed, and Elsa swung instinctively, before the cockpit displays had time to come online. The steel fist of her Titan connected solidly with the armoured torso of her assailant, driving it back into the wall of the cliff behind it. Elsa used the momentary reprieve to dash out of line with it as she aimed carefully with her railgun. The round flashed between them in an instant, slamming into the Atlas's torso, driving it back.

Her Vortex shield engaged as the medium Titan dashed sideways, opening up with its chaingun once again. Rounds pattered off against the projected energy field, claimed within its strange embrace. She ran the shield to the redline, waiting for the Atlas Pilot to reload his weapon. She released the collected rounds as the drum fell from the other Titan's weapon. Just before impact a wall of energy intercepted the blast, turning from green to red with the strain of absorbing that much damage.

There was a hiss, and high pitched whine, and Elsa saw the core of the Atlas glowing white hot, surging through its weapons. A rocket salvo threw her aim off, stripping what little shields had managed to regenerate. The chaingun ripped into the hull of her Titan, shredding it in seconds, coring her reactor. Elsa hit the failsafe as she pulled the ejection handle between her legs at the front of her seat. A burst of energy from the dash charger blasted through her jetpack, launching her a hundred feet in the air as her Titan's reactor went critical.

The blue-white glow temporarily flash-blinded her as shell fell, but she watched with grim satisfaction as the Atlas was torn to pieces by the explosion. _Take that, you bastard_. The IMC still only held Bravo, and Elsa adjusted her descent to land closer to Charlie, surging forwards as soon as she hit the ground. She was running over the exposed hilltop, and then suddenly she was back in the Ripcord chamber of the _Sentinel_.

"The fuck?" she stumbled forward, closing her eyes and demanding a replay from her didactic implant. The battleROM software projected fuzzy green outlines before resolving into the viewpoint of her assailant. Another Ogre, armed with a 40mm cannon. She watched, pissed off, as a single cannon round blasted her previous body into tiny chunks of meat. But it hadn't been a deliberate shot. The Pilot had been aiming at a cluster of Spectres guarding the entrance to Charlie—but something had thrown his aim off, some random impact, and the round had hit her instead of the Spectres.

Duke was also in the Ripcord chamber, gathering his preferred weapons and pulling rank on someone, getting his Titan pushed to the front of the build queue. Elsa snorted in disgust, gathering her weapons and pulling an Amped Archer from the rack she had loaded earlier. It was getting heavy on Titans down there, and she was eager to settle the score. The warpfall conduit deposited her outside Alpha, another update from Blisk crackling across the tactical network.

"The turrets for this hardpoint are back online, and we are engaging the _Redeye!_" He continued, static temporarily interrupting the transmission. "All units, we've got the upper hand for now, but it's a close fight. Don't let your guard down."

Elsa was already moving, sprinting for the upper entrance to Alpha's mezzanine level, launching herself, using her jetpack to gain height and land softly on the balcony. Then she was sprinting through Alpha, leaping from the enclosed balcony at the far end of the building, jetpack just carrying her to the generator housings. She was following the same path she had at the start of the battle. The voice of Spyglass sounded in her ear, informing her her replacement Titan would be ready in thirty seconds. She hit her Stim, sprinted from the roof, and arrowed towards the bar entrance to Bravo. She landed softly with the assistance of her jetpack, gunning down a trio of Grunts holding the area.

Grunts didn't come back, but she felt no remorse at the killing. Grunts didn't even have personalities. They were clones, like Pilots, but only implanted with combat instincts and experience from the best templates. They were, in short, expendable. Even more so than Pilots or Spectres. IMC Pilots would often joke it was a sad day when a Militia grunt managed to kill them—usually after a duel with another Pilot left them weakened. More grunts would always arrive, either by dropship or drop pod, depending on who controlled local airspace.

Elsa ignored the bodies, hearing Blisk's call to get closer to the hardpoint so they could take it back. She caught another grunt staggering through the bunker entrance to the field, and a Militia Pilot with an R101 walking down the stairs covering the corners. Her reaction was immediate, and in the firefight Elsa felt at least half a dozen impacts against her vest. The Militia Pilot suffered worse, slumping to the floor, dead. Elsa finished the grunt with a snap-kick that shattered his spine, made possible only by her enhanced physique. As soon as the hardpoint was recaptured, Spyglass informed her that her replacement Titan was ready to drop. Seconds later she was inside it.

"Come on, Marshmallow," Elsa thumped at the side of her cockpit for good luck. "Time to move out."

The Ogre ran ponderously onward, down the narrow road that circled past the ruined building between Bravo and Alpha. Elsa urged her Titan onwards, almost missing the yellow warning sign on her HUD. Titan grenades. Someone near Alpha was using a Triple-Threat. Three grenades slammed into the Ogre, and Elsa lowered the shoulder and bulled through, sweeping across the perpetrator with her Multi-Target missiles. A full pack of ten slammed into the Stryder, staggering it and sending its final launch wide, grenades scattering behind the Ogre. Elsa risked a snap-shot with her railgun, and watched with satisfaction as it cored the lower section of the Stryder's cockpit, punching out the back of the lighter Titan.

"Warning, threat level high." The Titan's AI rang in Elsa's ears. "Warning, another Titan is attacking you. Caution, you are outnumbered two to one."

_Shit_. That was Elsa had time to think before attempting to at least finish off the Stryder in front of her. Dropping the railgun, Elsa took hold of the Stryder, ripping it's left arm off in a spray of sparks and hydraulic fluid. Then she brought it crashing down on the damaged cockpit of the enemy Titan. The Stryder fell in a heap of scrap, the Pilot inside crushed to death when the cockpit stoved in from the blow. AI all but screaming at her, Elsa knew it was too late to save her own Titan. She hit the overload button and yanked the eject lever, sailing into the air. The explosion caught the Atlas shooting her in the back off guard, nearly obliterating it.

Armour scraped and blackened, systems exposed, Elsa was surprised to see the tell-tale flicker of shields powering up on the Titan beneath her. She landed hard, then hit her Stim, chasing the Titan along the wall, boosting into the air and scrabbling over its shoulder, ripping open a critical access panel. Holding on with one hand, a grip-glove, and help from her jetpack, Elsa emptied a clip of C.A.R. rounds into the Atlas's internal systems. That did the trick, the Titan lurching forwards as Elsa jumped back, boosting to the roof. The Pilot ejected, but Elsa lost sight of him as he rocketed into the air and cloaked.

She turned back to Alpha, intent on completing her original task. Blisk gave an update as she hung from the wall opposite the mezzanine level. "This hardpoint's secured, but I'm detecting hostiles nearby. Don't let them near that terminal!" His voice crackled on the tactical network a moment later. "Excellent, the Redeye's now at 25% hull integrity. Let's finish her off, eh?"

A Militia Pilot armed with a shotgun decloaked as he rounded the false wall opposite the balcony, and Elsa barely had time to react as he threw something past her. As he fell she heard an ominous beep, and felt her damaged body being torn apart in a massive explosion. Satchel charge. Dead-man trigger.

She staggered out of the Ripcord chamber, going through the motions of collecting her weapons. Her Titan was ready. She scrambled out the far end of the chamber, into the Titan assembly line. The cockpit of her Ogre remained open, Plasma Railgun slung across its back, a Multi-Target missile system being quick welded onto its shoulder in a shower of sparks. She leapt high into the air, twisting sideways so the jetpack's thrust carried straight into the padded seat in the centre of the cockpit. She reached up and pulled the cockpit hatches closed, initializing all onboard systems. The whole Titan rumbled as the drop-rack held it in place.

Elsa looked down, the bay door beneath her sliding open. The rack released her with a resounding clang. The displays blacked out as she crossed the shock layer, the roar of descent deafening. The heat shield split open, and the Ogre slammed into the ground with tooth-jarring force. She rubbed her jaw for a second, getting her bearings. Somewhere near Charlie, middle of the road, next to an overgrown cliff. Blisk's voice crackled in her ears.

"Blisk to all remaining units: the Militia have a slight edge, and the fight is nearly over. You've got to turn this fight round before it's too late!"

"Alright Marshmallow, lets do this!" Elsa shouldered her Titan forward, crashing into Charlie, Spyglass hacking the terminal in there through her Titan's interface. Two Titans faced her, pinning her in the building. A Stryder with a Triple-Threat, and an Atlas armed with a chaingun. The same ones she'd fought earlier. Her vortex shield slammed the Stryder's cluster missile back at it full force, rocking it back and forcing it to dash into cover, deploying smoke as it went. Her own missiles, direct at the Atlas, met with a particle wall, almost destroying it. She dashed forward, steel fist slamming full force into the Atlas, sending it staggering backwards.

Then the Stryder was attacking from her right, and Elsa forced the Ogre she was piloting to backpedal. Her Titan's AI helpfully informed her she was now outnumbered three to one. The horrendous visual distortion across her screens told her that this assailant was armed with an Arc Cannon. A railgun shot stripped what was left of the Stryder's shields, and a follow up shot tore through the agile Titan's torso, leaving a superheated hole in its wake. The entire armour panel glowed with heat, and the Pilot wisely decided to seek cover.

"We've been defeated, prepare to evacuate," Blisk's voice cut bitterly across the tactical network. Elsa looked at the Atlas in front of her, then dashed backwards, spinning to fire another railgun shot at her newest assailant. It was another Ogre, still at full health. She heard a breach in her Titan's reactor core, and knew it wasn't worth saving. Not anymore. She slammed her fist against the safety override and yanked the ejection lever, angling herself towards the evac point as she flew into the sky. She didn't bother looking back, she knew anything that survived the blast would be following her.

She hit the ground hard, activating her Stim and sprinting between a narrow cliff face, jumping from one wall to the other, building momentum as she ran. Her feet hit the ground for only a second, and she was flying through the air again, sprinting across a low wall before launching herself towards the roof of the ruined building between Alpha and Bravo. Several high calibre impacts tracked behind her up that wall. She surged forwards, diving through the open hatch of the evac ship, securing her jump harness. Weapons fire rocked the dropship, but a moment later there was the familiar whip-whumpf of a short range jump, and the whine of a jump engine cooling down.

"Hmph, we didn't even kill half their fleet. 54 ships destroyed. That's it," Blisk sounded bitter as he finished his report over the tactical network.

"How many of those ships were civilian?" Graves's smooth baritone was distorted only a little by the commlink. Elsa felt her blood run cold. They'd been firing on _civilian_ ships? That was against almost every rule of war she could name, but she couldn't tell if Graves was admonishing Blisk or merely confirming information.

"Today's civilians are tomorrow's Militia. Sir. What do you want me to do? Wait?" Elsa listened, mute, as Blisk rattled off some kind of justification for their actions. Elsa unloaded her gun and safetied all her weapons. But even as she did so another thought was forming in the back of her head. _I'm fighting for the wrong side_.

"Start a search. I want that fleet found. Graves out." So Graves had just been looking for confirmation. Elsa closed her eyes, and hit the manual activation system on her Ripcord.

* * *

She was lying in her cabin aboard the IMC _Sentinel_. She was on top of the covers, the pillow only half under her head. She swung her legs over the edge of her bed and sat up straight. This was the real her. Elizabeth Stroud's cosmetic body—a much more accurate clone of her original physique. She wore a loose, white t-shirt, and black boy-leg briefs. Comfortable. She looked at herself in the mirror. Finely structured face, strong cheekbones and jawline. Platinum hair—a trait neither of her parents had shared—strung up in a loose braid hanging over her left shoulder. But most of all it was her eyes. A piercing shade of icy blue. She sighed, patting herself down, trying to find triggers for old and new phantom aches. Thankfully nothing presented itself. But now she had a bigger problem—if she was going to defect, how the hell would she escape?

And if she did, what about the Ripcord system. She would have to disable it. She would have to risk actual, eternal, death, in order to make a clean break. Then… then she might even wind up literally fighting herself, if the IMC decided to restore her consciousness from a previous Pull. The whole situation was fucked up on more levels than she even cared to count. She had no idea if the Militia would even accept her either. They might just decide to shoot her on the spot, not knowing her Ripcord would be deactivated. _And wouldn't that be a wonderful kind of irony?_ she thought bitterly.

Elsa dressed in her normal off-duty clothes, pulling on a faded pair of old jeans, and a fur trimmed mini-jacket in IMC blue. There wasn't a whole lot to do—she knew she would have to attend a debrief on the battle later, and she would also personally review her own performance from the battleROM data. Right now, however, she needed a drink, something to bring her down from the rush of combat. She could always lose herself in the moment, on the battlefield. It was the way of many Pilots. Past and future ceased to exist. On the battlefield there was only now, and motion. A moving, eternal, present. It was a rush like no other, and she knew several Pilots who treated it like a drug, testing their immortality to its limit.

She looked at the tumbler in front of her. _Fuck_. Only soda, because she was still on duty until Graves gave the order to stand down from combat status. _Well, at least that means the debrief'll be postponed too. Small mercies_. Elsa chugged the drink anyway, giving a slight hiccough when some of it went down the wrong way. She swallowed hard, thumping her chest, eyes watering. Even her drink was trying to kill her today. She didn't want to wake up in yet another clone. Especially not a cosmetic clone—they were expensive, and rare, needing to be gene-tailored to each individual over a period of months or even years. The Sentinel's clone bay still managed to keep at least one spare cosmetic clone for every Pilot onboard. War clones numbered in the dozens, and Grunts numbered in the hundreds, kept floating in nutrient tanks until they were needed.

"Rough day?" Duke asked, sitting next to her. He still wore a vaguely ridiculous looking moustache. He also appeared almost comically short next to Elsa's lithe frame.

"Some of those ships were civilian, Duke."

"We signed on for this tour to get a job done. The Militia has been terrorizing colonies all over the Frontier in the past few months. Don't lose focus here, Elsa. We have a real enemy, and they pose a real threat."

Elsa just frowned at him.

"It's not our fault they use those colonists as human shields. But hey, we nearly got the _Redeye_, that's the First Fleet's flagship. They're going to be smarting after that one. Orbital cameras show just how fucked up it really got. I'm surprised it still managed to jump at all—but it managed to drag a number of tenders with it, and you can bet they were filled with stolen fuel."

"Then why didn't Blisk just target the tenders, wouldn't it have made more sense on a strategic level?"

"Yes and no, from what I've heard going around. Those ships are mostly empty space, designed to hold bulk stores and fuel. If they'd been damaged enough they might have used them like fire ships. You remember the Outpost 84 incident?"

"How could I forget?"

"Oh, shit. Sorry. I forgot your father was on that Outpost when it got hit."

"Old news, Duke, but thanks."

"Anyway, imagine what half a dozen heavily damaged tenders like that could do if they managed to break in next to the _Sentinel_ or the _Colossus_."

Elsa mulled that over for a long moment. It would have been catastrophic all right, but that still didn't give Blisk good reason to target the civilian ships trailing the Militia fleet. Planting her hands against the bar, Elsa stood stiffly, turning to leave. Duke didn't try to stop her. He knew better. She just got like this sometimes. It was hard having strong morals in what was essentially mercenary corporation under the jurisdiction of Hammond Robotics. Corporate interests everywhere. Duke didn't mind at all—the money was too good.

Elsa spent the next two hours wandering through the Sentinel, taking a conditioning run, and doing several sim exercises focused on agility in combat. Her mind still hadn't cleared, and Graves still had yet to stand the fleet down from combat status. Stripping off her slightly sweaty clothes, Elsa folded them into a neat pile, preparing her uniform. She had finally been called for a debrief despite the fleet still being on alert—apparently all the Pilots were going to be thoroughly debriefed after the Militia raid had proved so successful.

Freeing her hair from its confining braid, Elsa ran her fingers through her platinum locks, turning on the shower, adjusting it to the right temperature. As the water washed over her and she scrubbed herself clean, a single, desperate thought overwhelmed her. _What am I going to do?_


	2. The Colony

**AN:** Of course they fought on opposite sides. You expect Anna to be working for the evil IMC overlords?  
Harder to write than the first chapter though—I just don't think I conveyed the same kind of energy.

* * *

The IMS _Sentinel_ hung in the blackness of deep space like an ancient monolith. Viper class strike dropships jumped in and out of local space, ferrying combat probes to unexplored systems. Sharp, angular Phantom class fighters swarmed around the great ship, forming a combat air patrol. Both light vessels shared the same hull, one trading lift engines for ordnance pods. The remainder of the IMC fleet was mopping up in the Yuma system, taking on supplies and returning to the main fleet when their tasks were complete. The IMS _Colossus_ held command in Yuma, the Spyglass presence there in constant communication with the _Sentinel's_ instance.

Onboard the ship, sergeant Stroud was just waking up. The debrief the previous night had been rough, but she was cleared fit for duty. She'd managed to conceal what she needed to. Suppressing her emotions far more than was probably healthy. She didn't care. As a Pilot, on the field, emotion got in the way. There could be no time for thought, only action. Momentum. But her horror kept returning; remembering Blisk admitting to shooting down civilian ships—and his flimsy reasoning behind it. She had joined the IMC to fight for the expansion of the Frontier. She hadn't known the true cost, nor the true character of those leading the charge.

_Well done Elsa_, she chided herself. _Make daddy proud, and here you are: Accessory to the slaughter of hundreds of innocents. I hope you're happy_. But she wasn't happy. She'd never really been happy working for the IMC, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time. She'd shown aptitude for the Hammond Robotics Pilot program. She'd excelled in that field, in fact. One of the early generation Pilots, the first few series of Ripcord Pulls. To say the tests were violent was nothing. The program had a 98% fatality rate, although that tended to be because the final test pitted the candidate against at least four AI controlled Titans in a survival challenge. Then four more… but they only counted surviving the first four.

Elsa remembered her test clearly, having managed to rodeo one Atlas Titan, and to kill an Ogre with her Archer. She recalled feeling her spine shatter, and having every internal organ smashed to a pulp. She could almost feel the Stryder's knuckles as they erupted through her chest and tore her body in half. Then there was light, darkness, a horrible, jarring sensation of disconnection. And just like that she had fallen from the clone vat, in the wrong body, wearing different clothes, and feeling violently ill. That her cloned body had eaten nothing made no difference, she still vomited all over the floor. Then she screamed when she saw something not herself through eyes that were not her own.

She remembered the smooth, artificial tones of Spyglass too. The AI had calmed her, helped her understand; had told her of the cosmetic clone being grown for her use. She remembered all of it from the required reading material for the Pilot program, and she thought she had been prepared. The sense of dislocation had just been so violent. Her first death had been traumatic—because she could recall in her unguarded moments that she had _wanted_ to die there. Wanted to _stay_ dead. She had caught a shadow of her father's face, an echo of his voice, right before she had been ripped back into the land of the living. Spyglass had called it a hallucination, but she wasn't so sure. Death was still the great unknown. And now every time she died, she was aware of something that watched, something that pushed her away. Something she had a strange kinship with.

Shaking her head, Elsa began pulling on her duty uniform. Graves's voice crackled across the PA channel.

"All personnel, this is Vice Admiral Graves. As you know, the Militia fleet remains operational in the wake of their refueling raid in the Yuma system, and we have deployed probes to a number of sectors. Spyglass will brief you on the results of the search."

The smooth, artificial tones of the tactical AI overlaid the Vice Admiral's final words. "Pilots, I have scanned all possible destinations within jump range of the Yuma system. I have detected life forms in sector Bravo 2-1-7. Militia forces may be hiding there. I recommend an advance team lead by sergeant Blisk investigate with a suitable complement of supporting units."

Elsa sighed heavily. She knew exactly where this was going. Still only half dressed, she lay back on her bunk. Graves's response to Spyglass's suggestion was immediate.

"Very well. So ordered. All Pilots, gear up and stand by for deployment. Sergeant Blisk has command on the ground. Good luck, Graves out."

Elsa hit the manual activation system for her Ripcord, feeling the familiar sensation of a non-violent transfer—knowing this was the last time she'd ever see this particular body. It was like moment between sleep and wakefulness, where everything and nothing was real, images and sounds covering emptiness. But for her the emptiness was just one more layer—it covered something else, some greater secret. She was sure her father was in there, somewhere. And all of a sudden she was in the Ripcord chamber, arming up, selecting didactic upgrades and enhanced weapons for the coming battle. An Amped C.A.R.—she left that on the rack next to her Ripcord cell. A Decisive Action chit, earned from the previous battle, given to her during the debrief. She could get Marshmallow pushed up the build queue by 40 seconds. And lastly, a Double Agent IFF transponder. Anything that wasn't a Pilot would ignore her completely.

Then it was time to get to the launch bays. The dropships would launch as soon as the _Sentinel_ completed its jump to the unnamed planet. Once the dropships were clear, they would jump to combat altitude, deploying the Pilots they carried. Several Vipers were being loaded with Spectre racks, and techs hurried to finish attaching the slings and locking the inactive robots in place. Elsa shivered slightly. If she was going to carry out her plan, she would have to avoid the Spectres—and there were going to be a whole lot of them.

* * *

Lance Corporal Annalise Corazon shifted uncomfortably in her bunk on the _Redeye_. Even with her eyes closed she could see the slight perspective shift jumps always caused. Asking for five more minutes was unlikely to help, so, with a tired groan, she sat up, rubbing her eyes. Bish was talking on the intercom, and when Anna glanced at the clock she saw she'd managed to oversleep. Again.

"Listen up crew, the good news is we're still alive. The majority of our fleet survived the raid with enough fuel to run for another month. According to the tactical computers, the operation was a success. But we cannot continue to trade human lives for fuel. If anything, we need to recruit more to people to our cause, wherever we can find 'em. Sarah—"

Sarah's voice quickly replaced Bish's more even tones. "Two hours ago we received a distress call." She played the call over the PA system. "We're a small colony. What the hell are these things? We need help! Hit the distress beacon now! They're getting through the doo—"

Corazon shivered, sweat beading her shoulders and forehead. The _Redeye_ had been running hot with all the damage it had suffered in the Yuma system, but that static-laced and panicky transmission was enough to make the young woman's blood run cold. She remembered running in to something tagged as Spectres during the refueling raid. AI based combat troops, and tough as nails to boot. Bish was still taking several apart in the maintenance bay, trying to understand how the metal monsters worked.

Sarah was still talking, and lance corporal Corazon forced herself to concentrate on what was being said. "The origin of this signal is from a sector that isn't populated. It's not on any chart. There is the chance it could be an IMC trap. That's why we're sending you to check it out first. But if these guys are homesteaders and we help 'em out, they might just join our cause. Good luck Pilots, signing off."

Grunting in discomfort, Corazon sat on the edge of her mattress, unwittingly sitting on half her uniform. It wasn't going to matter this morning—her war clones would be already dressed, ready to go. She leaned back, consciousness departing her true body, emerging in much heavier version of a female body. All muscle, just as strong as any of the male clones, and just as agile. It simply looked different. Gene therapy and soldier boosts ensured gender equality. No one would hit the deck with an inferior clone.

With fluid, practiced movements she loaded her Spitfire light machine-gun, checking the safety remained on and the bolt held open. On one hip she slung her RE-45, a low damage, high fire rate autopistol, while across the other hip she cinched the bandolier of satchel charges she was carrying. On her back was a Sidewinder rapid fire rocket launcher for taking down enemy Titans. She also took the time to swap her spare ordnance pouch for parkour didact. Mobility was going to be important. She commed down to the maintenance hangar, telling the techs to leave the Guardian Chip in place in her Titan. Then it was time to select upgrades for the coming fight. A pre-built Stryder sounded like a good idea. Satellite Uplink, to scan for nearby enemies. Hmm, something new. Spectre Camo—another one of Bish's experiments. Worth a shot.

* * *

The IMC Goblin dropship jumped above the colony outbuildings with a soft whumpf of displaced air. Blisk held the grab rail as the side hatch opened, taking in the scene below. A Spectre held a colonist on her knees, then another unit shot her through the back of the head. Elsa turned away, disgusted. Blisk thumbed his mic, talking to Graves in his thick Afrikaans accent.

"Sir, we haven't found any Militia, just a handful of civilians!"

"Copy that, keep looking." Graves sounded disinterested. He didn't ask what was happening to the civilians.

"But I like the way these Spectres kill, eh!"

How easy it would have been to draw and fire; Elsa knew she could have stopped it right there—but at heart she knew she couldn't kill someone in cold blood. Not someone without the benefit of a Ripcord, even if it might solve a lot of problems down the line. Just one more reason to get out while she could. The situation was even better than she'd hoped, because she might be able to pass as a survivor of the attacks. Getting the Militia to trust her was going to be a lot harder. And Blisk was still talking.

"Next-gen automated infantry's the future, but taking out a bunch of civilians is hardly a test."

In the distance Elsa could see a Militia dropship streak in, completing its jump. The Goblin's pilot saw it to, his voice crackling across the intercom.

"Sir! It looks like Militia ships! They're deploying ground forces at the north end of the village."

"Now that's a real threat, Deploy three more racks of Spectres!" Blisk sounded disturbingly happy.

Elsa slipped from the dropship hatch, launching herself forward and over the nearest rack of Spectres, climbing over a small solar charging station. All the buildings she could see were made of darkly coloured corrugated metal, with a few holes cut out for windows. It was like some kind of shanty town—except there were ordered streets and avenues here. Something that spoke of serious forward planning. This was far more than a simple colony. Whoever these people were, they had been here a long time. Judging by the tracks over the southern part of the village, this place had extensive trade with at least one other settlement on this planet.

Her thoughts were wandering. It was a bad sign. Especially since she thought she'd just seen a Stryder dash around that corner. There was a tower in the centre of the colony that would serve as an excellent vantage point, only three rooftops away. Elsa scrambled over the roof of what was probably a vehicle hangar, launching herself through the air, a blast from her jetpack carrying her towards the nearest house to the east, an 'L' shaped construct of two stories with a peaked roof and reinforced walls. Boots pounding the corrugated metal, she hit her Stim, surging forwards and landing hard on the peaked roof of the next building in the chain. Down the far side, then a blast from her jetpack and she was against the wall of the tower. She used her jetpack to simply hang there for a moment, sweeping the ground beneath her with her main weapon.

It was definitely a Stryder, circling the outside of the settlement, lightning erupting from its Arc Cannon and arcing through half a dozen tightly clustered Spectres. It turned to face her. _Oh, Shit!_ Elsa released her hold on the tower as a cluster missile slammed into the metal above her, submunition explosions pocking the metal and raining shrapnel on the hapless Pilot beneath them. Sprinting for cover, Elsa saw a Militia Pilot decloaking ahead of her, and a dozen rounds from her C.A.R. had ripped through him before he had time to react. That didn't help the Grunts slain by his Smart Pistol, but Grunts were expendable; eminently so.

Elsa ran into the nearest building, noting two large silos atop the roof. Out the far end of the building, through an open door, she could see the base of a tower perched on top of a small rocky terrace. A generator building stood off to the left, and as she ran to that building she looked up, noting that the tower had a full landing pad on top. Something up there was still burning, sending smoke into the air like a pyre. There was an ominous click behind her, and the world exploded in fire.

* * *

"Steady Anna, you'll jam the feed." Kristoff placed a hand over Anna's, steadying her. "What's got you so worked up anyway?"

"I don't know, Sergeant Bjorgman," and she thumped him on the back. He nearly fell out the hatch in surprise. "Something about this possibly being an IMC trap?"

"I don't think these people wanted a war—that's why they settled an unexplored sector."

Any further conversation was stalled by Sarah's authoritative voice. "Bish, start playback."

The transmission was laced with static, but everyone could clearly hear the rising panic in the broadcaster's voice. "Mayday, mayday! We are a small civilian colony on planet Troy. We are under attack from IMC forces and require immediate assistance. Please send help. Embedding coordinates."

"That distress call was four hours old," Bish spoke from the first Crow in the formation. "Okay… first squad on the ground, they have eyes on the distress signal coordinates."

Sarah called to the pilot of the dropship Anna was riding in. "What do you see 3-2? Anything by the tower?"

"Nothing," the reply was curt. "The tower looks abandoned. We got dead colonists in the streets. No sign of the others."

"Got it. Pilots, let's find out what the hell happened here. Fan out through the village and we'll meet up by the south gate. Be careful down there."

Anna stumbled from the dropship, rolling to cushion her landing. The Grunts around her did the same, unclipping from their ziplines. They didn't have the advantage of jetpacks to slow their descent. A moment later Anna rose, Spitfire swinging into line as a Spectre slammed into the dirt in front of those Grunts. Even as she was firing at the Spectre she was calling in her Titan. A pre-built Stryder chassis. She swept the area nearby for other threats, taking out another Spectre with her Spitfire. The third fell to a jetpack-boosted kick that snapped it in half. Four seconds had passed. Anna could hear the rumble of displaced air, the basso roar of a fiery descent.

Loose dirt kicked up all around her, and the outside world turned a hazy blue as her Titan's dome shield sprang into existence. She threw herself into the cockpit, pulling the hatch closed with her left hand as her right grabbed the controls, scooping up the Arc Cannon dropped with her Titan. Both hands on the controls now, she gave the cannon a half-charge test. Lightning arced from the terminals, grounding through a nearby steel fence. A devilish grin crossed her face as she spoke to her Titan.

"Hey Olaf, what's say we toast some robots?"

"That's not healthy," Kristoff's gruff tones answered her. She'd left the comm circuit on. Again.

"Tell that to Sven," she shot back, gleefully trampling over a pair of Spectres. She had circled halfway around the perimeter of the colony, searching for more of the metallic troopers. Half a dozen were clustered together, their dropship jumping to safety. It didn't help the Spectres, lightning arcing between them, melting armour, fusing joints and scrambling delicate electronics. There was a high tower, a lookout, in the centre of the colony. An IMC Pilot was currently hanging from it, sweeping her weapon around. The cluster missile corkscrewed through the air before she was even aware of firing it, slamming into the base of the tower, several metres above the Pilot.

Then Anna was off again, urging her Titan through the narrow streets, hunting for targets. Grunts, Spectres, Titans—if they were IMC they were fair game. As she darted between the buildings, shaking off one daring Pilot with her electric smoke countermeasure, Sarah's voice cut across the tactical channel.

"Bish, any progress on tracking the remaining colonists?"

"I'm picking up an incoming transmission, but it's garbled," Bish paused for a moment, obviously working on something. "Give me some time to clean it up."

* * *

The Stryder was proving to be a real menace, decimating IMC support forces throughout the battle. No one yet had Titan authorization, and it was running roughshod over them, spitting blue-white lightning at every turn, killing Grunts and Spectres with almost reckless abandon. Elsa launched herself at the south wall of the tower building, sprinting along it with the aid of her jetpack, launching herself full force at the Titan hunting her erstwhile comrades. She wanted to get out of the IMC, but for now she would have to fight. She landed atop the Stryder, ripping open the maintenance hatch on top of its hull. The Pilot inside popped smoke, and Elsa hit her Stim and bounded away, losing sight of the Titan. Nothing for it.

She landed hard, lobbing an arc grenade towards a pair of hacked Spectres and was rewarded with the sight of them moving jerkily before collapsing, smoking and useless. There was a little alcove, two walls and an open gate, between the tower building and the next structure. Elsa collected her thoughts, momentarily still. Thirty seconds to Titanfall, and—

"…we're falling back to higher ground… we're falling back to the carrier… the _Odyssey_ is our only chance…" it wasn't any voice she recognized, but it was being broadcast over every channel.

"That's the voice of a dead man," Disbelief filled Graves's voice. "Find out where it's coming from."

Elsa was moving again by the time Spyglass started talking. She flipped from the wall of the building into the muddy street to her left, once again directly in line with the landing tower. Something told her it was more important than she'd first thought. Spyglass's words only seemed to confirm it.

"Sir, the broadcaster is using an unknown encryption format. I will require more time to triangulate his position."

Then a Shard of Spyglass cut through on her personal channel. "Titan online. Signal when ready."

Elsa threw the locator beacon towards the tower, sprinting for the rocks, looking to the sky as she did so. She caught a glimpse of a Militia Pilot with a Longbow designated marksman's rifle crouched atop the silos she'd noticed earlier. Two rounds from her C.A.R. slammed into him, drawing blood before he ducked out of sight, a small metallic disc sailing through the air. It detonated with a noise like an arcing power cable. Elsa stumbled, vision shading red. Nanites caused the tint, a visible sign of just how much damage she'd suffered. Another hit and she'd be dead. A heavy round chipped the stone in front of her. She turned, jumping backwards, and threw her last arc grenade towards the silos.

Her Titan caught her in mid-air, gently shoving her into the cockpit. She pulled the hatch closed, enabling all primary systems and checking the reactor's safeties. Unslinging her Plasma Railgun, she took aim at the Pilot that had tried sniping her out. The hypervelocity round missed, barely. Sometimes pinpoint accuracy worked against her, especially when attempting snap shots at agile Pilots. Her target was gone by the time the chamber had cycled the next round. That was fine, she had a Stryder to hunt—the one ripping apart the IMC forces.

One round fired with a sharp whip-crack, stripping half the shields from the Stryder on the far side of the village. The rocks beneath her Ogre gave Elsa just enough elevation to properly target the enemy Titan. After taking that hit it dashed into cover, behind one of the larger buildings to the south. The Ogre stepped forwards, inertia building into a ponderous run that shook the ground with every step. Several unfortunate Grunts failed to make way in time, crushed beneath enormous metal feet. Elsa rolled her shoulder, throwing the left control column forward. Her Titan followed her movement, steel fist slamming into a Militia Pilot trying to jump over her Titan in a rodeo attempt. Then, plodding forwards, she made her way into the field at the south east end of the village, a large vehicle hangar the only cover left before the perimeter fence. An empty container steadied her Titan when a cluster missile slammed into, submunitions exploding all around, draining her shields.

Elsa swept her reticle across the Stryder, achieving full lock with her multi-target missiles. Ten self-guided missiles launched in circular formation, spiraling towards the Stryder. The enemy Titan dashed sideways, the missiles correcting course at the last second. Only half of them hit, but combined with the railgun round it was enough to strip the shields of the smaller Titan. Disruption static arced across her screens and Elsa cursed, waiting for the image to stabilize. Arc Cannon. Of course. But the Stryder had dashed backwards, not sideways. Elsa's next railgun round pierced its cockpit, punching through the back of that space to graze the reactor beyond. The Titan staggered with the hit, its shot arcing wide, grounding into the field several metres from the Ogre.

The Stryder surged forwards, metal fist slamming into Elsa's Titan with enough force to stagger it, sending crashing into the vehicle hangar she'd noticed earlier. Her own counterpunch nearly toppled the Styrder, sending her railgun round through its shoulder instead of its torso. Heavy grenades slammed into the Stryder from behind, staggering it so badly it fell to one knee. The smaller Titan turned, unloading everything at this new threat. Duke's voice came across the comm as the Militia Pilot ejected from her doomed Titan.

"Thought you could use some help there. Didn't think a Stryder would give you that much trouble."

"It didn't." Elsa's voice was icy. Her Ogre still had 80% armour, and her ordnance had just reloaded. The Stryder would not have lasted much longer.

* * *

Falling from the sky, Anna cursed, activating her cloak. The enemy Titans were too far to rodeo now. She'd have to hunt other Pilots and IMC support forces instead. Kill enough of them and maybe they wouldn't want to come back. If she was good, she would help end the growing war that much faster. If the IMC lost forces at an untenable rate, they would _have_ to withdraw from the Frontier. But then another fleet would come through Demeter, and it would start all over again. Those were the thoughts that filled her mind as she let rip with her Spitfire, riddling a full squad of IMC Grunts with holes, reloading as they collapsed.

She dropped the box, whipping her RE-45 up as a Spectre landed in front of her. Twenty rounds riddled its metal chassis, and the AI trooper collapsed in a smoking ruin. Anna slammed a fresh clip home, then picked up the box feed for her Spitfire, locking it in place, feeding the belt through the breech. She cloaked, stalking forward, looking for new targets. It would be a few minutes before she was authorized to drop another Titan.

"Sarah, I got a positive ID, but it doesn't make any sense… this guy fell off the radar 15 years ago," Bish's disbelieving voice cut across the tactical channel.

"Spit it out Bish, we're running outta time," there was a definite note of urgency in Sarah's voice.

"His name's MacAllan. He was already a legend when I was just a rookie—only not on our side."

And Anna remembered that name from training. MacAllan had fought in the Titan wars; the first such conflict in the core. He was a first generation Pilot, not blessed with an enhanced physique or the unique advantage of the Ripcord system. The only way to control a Titan back then had been a neural link—technology that led to the development of the Ripcord system. But it also led to a unique type of brain damage that prevented effective Ripcord Pulls. First generation Pilots were held in awe because they risked _everything_ when they fought. They could also make a Titan do the impossible—the neural link was far more powerful than the onboard AI. But the cost in Pilots had become too great.

Anna stumbled, her thoughts returning to the present just in time to hear the ominous report of a Kraber anti-material rifle. She felt the round pierce her right shoulder, carry on through her ribcage, puncture her heart and exit through her left arm without slowing down. She was dead before she hit the ground, her consciousness rippling into renewed existence aboard the _Redeye_. Except she wasn't in her own body. Or any body, for that matter. She was now inside a _machine_. It felt weird. There was no feedback of any kind, but diagnostics overlaid one corner of her vision, informing her of everything going on around her, how her metallic body was reacting to various stresses, and where each part of her was in relation to the others.

She was a Spectre. Another one of Bish's crazy experiments, but she'd signed up for it. She felt stronger, faster, tougher. The Spitfire felt lighter in her new hands. Definitely some kind of improvement. Then she was in the Warpfall stream, crackling into existence on the western border of the colony.

* * *

One last Archer missile slammed into her Ogre, and Elsa cursed, the reactor going critical as she yanked the ejection lever. Her Titan detonated in a spectacular fireball as Graves began speaking on the tactical channel.

"Blisk, turn that colony upside down if you have to."

"Who is this guy?" came the thickly accented response.

"His name is James MacAllan, former IMC commander. He's wanted for mutiny. Find him." Graves's tone was matter of fact, but there was a current of real anger beneath his words. Elsa remembered the circumstances of his disappearance; concurrent with that of the IMS _Odyssey_. That had happened fifteen years ago, she'd been six at the time, and could recall her parents talking about it in hushed tones.

That was ancient history, and her battle was only just beginning. Or ending, in this case, the Militia seeming to have a significant edge in battlefield control, taking apart IMC forces almost as soon as they landed. Try to hunt them as she might, Elsa could not seem to find any Pilots. Only Grunts and hacked Spectres. A Pilot sprinted from the side of a low building in front of her, south of the tower. A Kraber round tore through the Militia Pilot, killing her instantly. Elsa glanced over her shoulder to see Duke jetting down from the landing tower. Sprinting forward, she launched herself at the windows to her right, scrambling into the second storey of an arcade style building. The two Grunts inside absorbed far more rounds than were necessary to put them down. Elsa reloaded, climbing the stairs for the roof.

And between two air con units she found the Longbow marksman that had evaded her earlier, picking off IMC targets with some satisfaction. Her enhanced strength snapped his neck with a full 180º twist, the body crumpling at her feet. A 40mm round slammed into the stairhead beside her, and Elsa launched herself from the roof. Now was not the time to get caught outside. Ripple-fired rockets swarmed over the roof, sailing into the distance.

"Blisk to all remaining units: the Militia have a slight edge, and the fight is nearly over. You've got to turn this fight around before it's too late!"

Elsa risked a glance at her battle tracker. 296 to 245, with the IMC trailing. The numbers were a limit to the losses they could sustain over multiple battles. 300 was the usual limit, with Pilots being worth 4 points, and Titans 5. It was a system she'd never really understood, but then again it had been devised by Spyglass, and it held up under all simulation conditions. The counter ticked over to 300. Moments later Blisk was back on the tactical channel.

"Vice Admiral Graves, I have the enemy transmission. Patching in."

"We didn't want any part of your war so you brought it to our doorstep?! Those were civilians getting slaughtered!"

Elsa sprinted for cover. She wasn't even going to bother making a run for the evac Goblin. This would be where she and the IMC parted ways. Permanently. It was the biggest risk of her life. More so than joining the Pilot corps in the first place. One wrong move here—hell, someone with an itchy trigger finger—and it would all be over. Forever. There would be no redemption, no reawakening, and no guarantee she would see her father again either.

"MacAllan," Graves's voice was even just long enough to get the name out. "Spyglass! Open a channel!

Inside the lower level of the building due south of the watchtower, Elsa jump-kicked a Grunt, stealing his clothes. She disabled her Ripcord, erasing all the data since her last Pull. It required creative use of an arc grenade as a directed EMP charge.

"Yes sir," the AI complied with Graves's command. "Channel open, Vice Admiral."

Elsa struggled into the loose fitting combat fatigues, pulling them over her combat clone's slighter frame. It wasn't a very good disguise, but with her Ripcord down—and her IFF system disabled—it might just work. Or it might get her killed. She had accepted that risk. Now she had to convince the Militia she wasn't a threat, and that her intentions were honourable. She had some useful information about IMC practices, and several access codes—which would likely be revoked the instant her treachery was discovered—but she wasn't sure how far such things would get her with the Militia leadership.

"You should've stayed gone, MacAllan," coming from Graves, it was more than a warning. Elsa shivered, knowing someday soon she might be hearing the exact same thing from her former comrades.

MacAllan's response was cold, but strangely questioning. "Graves—you're still on the wrong side, aren't you?"

Elsa started, wandering slowly from the building she was in, falling in line behind another Militia Grunt, searching desperately for any civilians she could try and blend with. But MacAllan's words had struck a chord. _Whose side is he on now?_ He had certainly seemed angry enough about the Militia fighting the IMC in this location, but… _He _knows_ Graves_. _What haven't I been told? _There was a loud crack that interrupted her thoughts. Pain erupted through her left side as another crack sounded, a second round piercing her chest, higher than the first. She keeled over, her Stim package unable to heal that level of trauma. It was the Pilot with the Longbow, and if she didn't miss her guess, an Echo Vision didact upgrade.

"We're soldiers Mac. You're dreaming if you think you can sit it out," Graves's voice sounded hollow and distant. Elsa saw boots in her field of view. Heavy boots, tilted sideways. No, she was tilted sideways—lying on the ground, bleeding to death. She reached out weakly… the Pilot in front of her had to understand.

"No… Rip… cord…"

The last thing she heard was MacAllan's final broadcast, obviously directed at Graves. "I'm awake now, you son of a bitch."

* * *

"You are," an all too cheerful voice informed her. "Fucking heavy. Do you _know_ how much a Pilot weighs?"

_I'm in hell. I died and went straight to hell. _Then Elsa had to force her eyes open. The first thing she noticed was the braids hanging over her. Twin braids, strawberry blonde—ginger. Being dead she figured she didn't have to be polite about things anymore. And she hurt. Everywhere. _Definitely hell._

"Fuck."

"Well, least we know you're alive. Kristoff's sorry for shooting you in the back, by the way."

Elsa's world was composed primarily of pain, and an annoyingly chatty ginger haired girl that—when she saw the young woman's face everything stopped. Someone so bright and pure should never have been involved in combat in the first place, let alone become a Pilot. Especially not for the Militia. _Then again, maybe this _is_ hell for the ginger_. For all the pain she felt, Elsa was surprised to find that she wasn't scared. She was dead, she was beyond caring—although she'd just heard something about being alive. Some odd trick.

"You're an idiot, too. There are better ways to defect than just frying your Ripcord system—though Bish says that was actually pretty smart, because it erased the Pull, and destroyed the tracking system on you as well."

"Bish?" Elsa slurred, feeling drunk—and rather less pain. Drugged. They were keeping her drugged. Another level of hell, she was quite sure.

"Bishamon, aka Cheng Lorck. If it has wires he can hack it," the garrulous redhead paused for a split second. "Hey, I didn't ask what your name was. Sorry, that was kinda rude."

"I _am_ in hell," Elsa mumbled, barely coherent.

"No you're not," the overly cheerful voice assured her. Elsa could barely feel the hand pressed against her shoulder. It was probably supposed to be a friendly gesture, but it felt all wrong. _Because you're still in your Pilot body, idiot_. That also explained why she could still feel some pain despite likely being drugged up to the eyeballs. Which meant she was emphatically not in hell. But she was restrained, although no doctors were nearby. No one except the annoyingly cheerful ginger.

"I'm alive?"

"You seem a little surprised. You told me you had no Ripcord, I called for a Crow about three seconds later, and Kristoff helped drag you inside. We jumped for the _Redeye_—of which you are now an occupant—and ran for the med bay. Most surprising thing is you're not the only ex-IMC officer to join us. Ever hear of James MacAllan?"

"Graves hates him."

"Anyway, he built this colony here, with scrap salvaged from the _Odyssey_. Hell of an operation, but there were half a dozen colonies down there on Troy. Fifteen years, and we never knew; suppose you guys didn't either."

"Am I a prisoner?"

"For now. Until Sarah gets some time to question you. We're helping MacAllan get his people off-world. Freeport Raiders are only a few jumps from here, and they've got the capacity."

"Why telling me?" Elsa fought to maintain some semblance of coherency.

"Not like it's classified. Anyway, thought it might be bad to wake up in an empty cell, strapped to a bed. 'specially seeing as how you're still in a war clone. Dangerous. You could probably kill half a dozen people without breaking a sweat."

"Settle for you…"

"Oh, play nice, mysterious ex-IMC Pilot. I'll see you later. After we've helped MacAllan get his people to safety.

The ginger was by the door before Elsa had the sense to say anything. Her voice cracked, but she didn't care. It was probably the drugs, sedatives and painkillers doing it anyway. Maybe even making her less icy than usual. "Stroud… Elizabeth Stroud."

The Militia Pilot paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame, braids falling past her shoulders and over her chest. Elsa couldn't help but notice the way she filled out that uniform in profile. Or the odd quirk her lips gave before she started talking again. "Beth; no. Bessie; definitely not. Liz; maybe. Ellie—it's Ellie, right?" Elsa shook her head, trying to get rid of the annoying young woman. "Elle; maybe? Am I close? Maybe it's not so common. Oh, oh… what _was_ that one? Umm… Elsa?"

Elsa's eyes shot open and the ginger grinned in triumph. "Elsa. I'm Lance Corporal Annalise Corazon. You can call me Anna if you like. They assigned me to watch over you while we run the integration program. We'll get you a generic clone as soon as Bish can figure out how to install a new Ripcord system in you—oh, and he said something about not liking the way you fried this one because he could have gotten a lot from the third gen systems the IMC are using now."

Elsa sighed. _Does she ever shut up? _As the door closed and locked behind the overly chatty lance corporal Corazon, Elsa decided the answer to her question would have to be a resounding 'no'. But at least they were thinking of bringing her back, as soon as they managed to get a clean Pull from her they might even accelerate the integration process. But she still had at least two Pulls and an inert cosmetic clone on the _Sentinel_. She hadn't had time to arrange some way to erase them, so Spyglass would soon know everything—and would know why she'd been so cold and noncommittal during that debrief. Keeping herself detached allowed her some secrets. She'd buried her desire to defect, to breakout, with her desire to see her father again—to die, and stay dead. Spyglass would probably see past it in less than a minute, but it was the best thing she could think of during the debrief. Obfuscation of her endgame, as best she could at the time.

Lying back, Elsa let the sedative work on her enhanced metabolism. The pain was there, fading slowly. She closed her eyes, intending to sleep—trying to figure out if combat clones even needed sleep—and what she saw wasn't the expected blackness. It was Corazon's face, framed by those fiery braids. It was a bad sign, because it meant she was… Even when she closed her heart off against the outside world, the world found a way to torture her anew. She was now living in a very special hell. And just before she did fall asleep, she uttered a single, highly annoyed word.

"Fuck."


	3. Odyssey

**AN:** I realize it takes too long for me to update this story, but it is a side project, just something I'm doing as time allows. I made time this week to get a decent chapter written up. Most of my effort goes into my main story (An Arm and a Leg), so unless a project is a one-shot, it tends to fall by the wayside for a while as I work on that monster. That's not to say I don't enjoy writing this story—I do—it's just because of the size and history of my main story, I put most of time towards that.

Don't worry though, this story will be finished eventually, probably being 10 chapters long to allow me an epilogue. Maybe 11 if I put up the lore I developed and a bunch of other notes about my Titanfall playstyle and so forth.

* * *

Annalise Corazon tilted her head to the side, taking in the tail end of Sarah's briefing. They'd just recovered two former IMC officers during the battle for the colony, and now the Militia was going to launch another operation less than a day later. She was all for the action, but she wasn't sure it was entirely necessary. Until she heard why they were fighting.

"Our dropships are standing by to rescue the surviving colonists," Sarah's voice was frank, all business. "Pilots, your job is to hold off the IMC at the old shipwreck until we've recovered the colonists, and their leader, James MacAllan. His last detail was first mate of the IMS Odyssey. That's where we're headed."

Bish added a little input of his own, clearly having done some digging into MacAllan's past. "MacAllan's an ex-IMC officer. He used to be one of their best pilots and tacticians. He's agreed to help us fight the IMC. If we get his people out safely. So let's get it done people, lock and load."

Anna sighed, hitting the manual activation system on her Ripcord. She stumbled out of the Ripcord chamber next to Kristoff. She retrieved a Spitfire LMG while he slammed a magazine home in his Longbow DMR. Four other Pilots selected for the mission were arming up around them, but Anna paid them little attention. She was actually more interested in the IMC Pilot they were keeping prisoner, the one who had disabled her Ripcord in order to defect. Without seeing a face Anna couldn't be sure how much she liked the other woman, but she had an engaging personality—or she would have, if she talked more, Anna was quite sure. That, however, was a project for another time. Right now they had a battle to win.

"You're thinking about her," Kristoff admonished her.

"Am no—okay. Fine. She's interesting," Anna admitted, jogging towards the nearest Crow.

"She's dangerous. She's defecting, but we don't know why. She never told us, and we haven't got a Pull from her yet, Anna. Her war clone could have killed you so easily," Kristoff jumped into the dropship, turning to offer a hand to his companion.

"But she didn't. And anyway, she was restrained," Anna took that hand, letting herself be dragged into the cabin before the hatch hissed closed. Bish sat at the opposite end of the bench, glowing lines of text scrolling up his face as he accessed every file he had on MacAllan's history. Anna tried reading it over his shoulder, and was disappointed to find it was all in an ideographic script. Complex ideograms, not letters or glyphs. _Spoilsport_. But she hadn't been that interested, just something to pass the time until they completed their jumps.

[hr]

The Crow hovered at the edge of a sheer cliff. A hundred metres away, off the nose of the dropship, rested the immense bulk of the IMS _Odyssey_. Cargo lines, cutting rigs, cranes and other salvage gear littered the area. The far side of the ship was much the same, running down into a gully that went beneath the overhanging stern of the ship. The bow was half-buried in the cliff wall rising further into the mountain plateau where the ship had first landed.

James MacAllan stood near the edge of the cliff, quietly contemplating the rectangular pile of stones he'd just finished placing there. Two sticks were tied in a cross with a long red ribbon. As the Crow drifted closer, the hatch opened, allowing all inside to see the former IMC officer. Bish leaned around the hatch coaming, shouting first to the pilot, then MacAllan.

"There he is! Put her down at the edge of the cliff!" a brief pause. "MacAllan!"

MacAllan turned slowly, a flash of sadness in his eyes before his face hardened into an angry mask. "They don't know what they've started…" he turned to Bish, already taking command of the situation. "You! Get me to the top of that carrier!"

"You got it," Bish wasn't about to argue, not when this man, who used to be the very best the IMC had to offer, was about to help them strike a blow for the Frontier Militia.

"Deploy all your forces around this area. We need to buy time for the survivors to escape!" MacAllan's voice was full of confidence as he clambered into the dropship. "Bish, I'm gonna transmit some intel from the Odyssey. I'm going in. Stand by."

The Militia Pilots on the dropship leapt out the open hatch, kicking up small clouds of dust as they landed. Anna broke left, sprinting for a generator building. Several trees dotted the area where they had landed, and she ran past a small thicket, leaping at the exposed wall of the generator building, scrambling up to the recessed roof area. To the north, her left, was another curved roof, and an elevator cage and access platform to the bow of the ship. There was another cage just forward, past a tunnel large enough to walk a Titan through.

She scrambled across the wall above the tunnel, landing hard in the cage and throwing a satchel charge through the hole cut into the _Odyssey's_ hull. She detonated the charge a moment later, hearing movement on the far side of the hole. Her reward was hearing the wet thud of an IMC Pilot's remains slamming into the wall. She darted through the hole, Spitfire at the ready. No one else was on the gantry, and a curved section of hull plating served as an excellent gun shield. Sweeping her weapon around, she saw nothing but Grunts and Spectres moving through the mostly empty hull of the ship. Bish's voice cut across the tactical channel.

"Keep the IMC out of MacAllan's hair and buy time for the survivors to escape."

Anna launched herself at the wall to her right, running along it just above the gantry, into a section that must have been the _Odyssey's_ back up CIC. Two squads of Grunts were exchanging fire with a handful of Spectres. Anna squeezed the trigger, feeling the punishing recoil of her weapon quickly settle into a more controllable pattern. The Spectres didn't last, and when they fell, the Militia Grunts advanced, three men taking each entrance at the far side of the chamber.

"Bish! We're taking orders from this MacAllan now?" Sarah's voice was strained.

"The guy knows the area better than we do, Sarah."

Anna kicked off as the conversation continued, sprinting to the end of the backup CIC. To her left was a tangle of cables and a narrow gantry. To her right was a narrow opening that broached into a void where the outer hull had been cut away in massive sections. Sarah was still talking as Anna ran across the gantry.

"He's ex-IMC! I don't trust him and neither should you." Which of course reminded Anna of the ex-IMC Pilot she had talked with. She leapt through the air, off the gantry and towards the massive piece of hull that had been removed, still hanging from a cutting rig on several cables. Bish's reply was laced with static.

"Maybe, but our tactics are a mess, and he's seen more combat than both of us combined. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him. Out."

Anna stopped dead, gripping the hull plating with her left hand, using her jetpack to keep her up. Her Spitfire hung loose on its sling as her right hand threw down her second satchel charge. A squad of IMC Grunts was moving beneath her. One noisy explosion later and they weren't. Bullets cratered the metal around her, and she dropped, landing in front of an IMC Pilot, her RE-45 already spitting lead. The dead Pilot twitched, R-101 carbine falling from lifeless hands.

"Be advised, Titan ready in 30 seconds."

She had no time to wait, reloading her pistol as she sprinted forwards, deeper into the IMC's initial landing zone. A trio of Spectres opened fire at her, several rounds catching her in the side, and she staggered, Spitfire roaring death and destruction. The Spectres fell, shredded by the high calibre rounds, but Anna was seeing only red. Then she felt a massive impact tear her spine in half, and suddenly she was back onboard the _Redeye_.

Grabbing another Spitfire and arming up, Anna dashed through the Warpfall curtain, landing somewhere west of the _Odyssey's_ wreckage. Two Militia drop pods landed next to her, a squad of Grunts emerging from each, covering their sectors before slipping into the nearest buildings.

"Hey, your Titan's good to go. Call it when ready."

"Alright Olaf, time to zap some IMC bastards," Anna wore a savage grin as she threw down the titanfall beacon.

Onboard the_ Redeye_ the Stryder class Titan was sealed into a Titan drop pod. A second later it was catapulted out of the ship by a powerful linear accelerator. Another second saw it hit the shock layer, the thicker atmosphere buffeting the pod and its incandescent heatshield. It was that buffeting that gave the shock layer its name, the point where density increased enough to generate turbulence due to the heat beneath the pod. Three seconds after launch the drop pod split open like a gigantic flower, heatshield burning up as it separated. A second later a powerful burst of vectored thrust slowed the Titan enough that it could make a survivable landing.

Dust billowed up around the Stryder's ankles, and Anna slid between its legs, the right hand's steel fingers grabbing her and placing her gently in the cockpit. The hatch closed with a hiss, and the displays sprang to life as the Stryder retrieved its weapon from the ground—an Arc Cannon. Anna pushed the controls forward, turning and accelerating into a swift sprint, scanning her surroundings for targets. There, in the core of the _Odyssey_, several teams of IMC Grunts. The Arc Cannon whined as its capacitor built up charge, unleashing it in a powerful torrent of directed lightning. Five less Grunts. Anna urged her Titan forwards, taking care to stand on a Spectre running for cover.

Inside the ship there were only two areas a Titan could fit, and even then it was tight. Perfect for her weapons. A burst of static blasted across her displays, and suddenly half her shields were gone. Anna twisted in her seat as she wrenched the controls around, executing a snap turn to try and find her attacker. Just as her displays cleared another burst of static rippled through, and it was time to move. She fired her Titan's dash thrusters, skimming forwards on raw thrust. The Stryder's leg servos re-engaged, and she was sprinting away from her attacker. No sense running in to an ambush.

She heard the thump against the cockpit roof before the display flashed up the Rodeo Warning.

"Warning, a hostile pilot is attached to hull."

"Hold still feistypants, I got him," Kristoff's voice cut across her radio. Three shots and some scratched paint later he'd made good on his words.

"Thanks mountain man," she flicked her mic off again, and started scanning the tower and gantries around her for targets. IMC Pilots especially. Like the oblivious idiot on the southwest generator catwalk lining up a Kraber shot. It was a split second decision, and by the time she was in place her Titan's fist was already swinging, armoured knuckles ringing against a generator housing as the IMC Pilot became a gory paste. She smiled. One less to hunt down.

A wave of impacts rocked her Stryder's lightweight chassis backwards, and she turned to try and draw a bead on her assailant a heavy impact wrenched the entire torso sideways, staggering the Titan. Her cluster missile sailed well wide of its mark, detonating harmlessly against the outer hull of the _Odyssey_. Another 40mm round staggered her Titan further and she dashed away, down a narrow alley that led to the west, near where they had initially landed. If she could draw her attacker there she could put her Stryder's superior agility to much better use.

Or she could cut through that gap to the south, jog her Titan past the wrecked car, and let her fully charged Arc Cannon tear into the rear of the Atlas attacking her. The crackling boom of the cannon's discharge was sweet music, followed by the distinctive whine of a Charge Rifle, the energy weapon carving through the Atlas's reactor mountings, causing severe internal damage. 40mm rounds smashed into the armoured front of her own Titan, throwing Anna's aim off so her Arc Cannon discharged into the catwalk supports instead of her intended target. Then the IMC Titan's fist slammed into her Titan with enough force to dent the armour of her cockpit, a narrow band of light visible through one buckled seal.

"Critical Damage. Take Cover," her Titan's OS urged her to fall back. "Warning, recommend regen."

She fired a snap shot with her cannon, just enough to chip some armour away, then she popped smoke, the charged particles arcing powerfully, stripping armour and protective coatings from the Atlas she was facing. It wasn't enough to cause major damage, but that was never the point. It covered her retreat beneath the overhanging stern of the _Odyssey_. She hadn't even noticed the pair of IMC Grunts she'd stepped on either. She was debating whether to let her shields charge, or press the attack and hope her enemy didn't have a regen booster.

"Three," Kristoff's voice crackled over her radio. "Keep chasing her… now."

When Anna looked up she saw the carnage of a direct Titanfall on the enemy Atlas, shredded armour plating and crushed internals spraying across the landscape. The Warpfall transmitter fell offline with a distinctive whumpf, and an Atlas class Titan with a distinctive bull's head emblem rose from the pile of scrap.

"Good job, Sven. Right on target." And with that the auto-titan turned and strode towards the point Kristoff had jumped from his perch, overlooking the western corridor of the map with his Longbow DMR. The Titan caught him in mid-air, cradling him in its steel fingers before depositing him in the cockpit. "Hey, Corazon, 'zap zap'." Anna could just imagine his sly wink. He wasn't going to let that one go. She'd said it once, _once_, in a fit of battle rage.

"Zap this," she lurched past him, her Titan's gyros out of balance from the beating it took. She made sure to scuff the Stryder's shoulder against the bull's head insignia on his Titan's torso. Then she was off again, cutting right to move through the _Odyssey_, seeing an opening a crouched Titan could just fit through out to the eastern side of the cliffs. Where the majority of the IMC forces seemed to be gathering.

A massive detonation rocked her Titan, and she knew she'd made a mistake. Her Titan's AI informed her of this in its dispassionate tones, enabling her auto-eject system. Cloaked, falling from a hundred feet, she couldn't see the bastard that had ruined her Titan, but she could see three squads of IMC Grunts making their way down the northern dirt path towards the opening her Titan had exited from. She squeezed the trigger, her Spitfire arcing up with recoil, settling into a sustained fire pattern as she hosed down eleven grunts with copious amounts of lead. She didn't release the trigger until the belt was spent, seconds later. It felt good to let rip sometimes.

She'd been advancing the whole time, mowing down the Grunts. She saw a flash of movement to her left, emerging from a covered walkway outside a small quonset style hut. Then she saw running feet as a boot slammed into her left side hard enough to break every rib and pierce every organ with the fragments left in there. Pain. Death. Dislocation.

And she was alive again, onboard the _Redeye_. In the Ripcord chamber was a battle tracker, and it looked about halfway done. 167. Anna had never really understood what the numbers were for though, even though Bish had explained how they were calculated at some length. The IMC's track was down near 100, and she knew that was good. They had a lead of about half over the IMC, and she planned to extend that even further. She was fighting well today, and she knew it.

Spitfire in hand, Sidewinder on her back, RE-45 on her hip and carrying a bandolier of satchel charges she leapt full tilt into the Warpfall conduit, reality dissolving around her and re-establishing itself as somewhere to the southeast of the _Odyssey_. The generator building where she had started her run. Then she saw the zipline to the tower Kristoff had been perched on earlier. She leapt for it, latching on and firing her jetpack to ride all the way up, cloaking as she released the line, sailing in a graceful arc to the south, and the path below the _Odyssey_.

A powerful whine echoed through the air, and Anna felt the sound in her teeth, a surge of power slamming through her. The whine decreased in pitch, becoming a discordant, pulsing, shuddering noise. The distinctive ping of overstressed steel followed the dull rumbling that had just set up. There was the whip-snap of tensioned cables flying loose, and the shriek of metal shearing away under intense load. Landing hard, Anna watched in disbelief as the entire aft port engine assembly fell from the ship, trailing control cables, hydraulic lines, and heaven's knew what else. The engines tumbled down the side of the cliff, crashing and banging as they went. Several long seconds later there was a muffled explosion, and Anna knew the engines had finally found the foot of the cliffs.

"Mac! The Odyssey's shaking itself apart! You sure this is gonna work?" Bish's voice cut across the tactical net, sounding frantic.

"Have a little faith Bish, we're not flying this thing. She'll hold together for what we need." MacAllan was firm, and his voice seemed somehow reassuring.

When she was sure it was safe, Anna ran for the path beneath the ship, sparks showering her, but nothing else seemed likely to fall. An IMC Pilot was sprinting along the catwalk to her left and she brought her Spitfire in line with her in a second, high calibre rounds sparking from the railing and plating behind the catwalk. Blood spatters tracked the pilot into the salvage hub beneath the ship, but she didn't fall. Anna cursed, sprinting and jumping for the edge of the catwalk, a blast from her jetpack propelling her over the edge. Bish and MacAllan were still talking as she fought.

"What we need?! MacAllan, you're crazy if you think we can take out Demeter. The air support there alone is bigger than all the Militia fleets combined."

"You don't know the half of it."

"We don't know the half of it?" Sarah's voice cut in as Anna worked her way into the salvage hub, seeing the stairs, moving cautiously up the first flight. "We've been taking the fight to them every day, while you've been hiding out in the sticks."

"Believe me, I'm not hiding anymore." MacAllan wasn't pulling his punches anymore. The IMC had attacked his people, and managed to piss him off. Badly. As a first generation pilot who just wanted to live out his life in peace, pissing him off was about the worst thing anyone could have done. Just like running from Annalise Corazon and hiding in a corner tended to be a bad idea. Normally. She heard the click as she threw her satchel charge. _Arc mine_, was all she had time to think before the surging electricity fried her already armed charge, pre-detonating it.

Anna shook her head to clear the nonexistent ringing from her ears, stepping out of the Ripcord chamber. _Well, at least I got the bitch_. She considered her options, taking her decisive action chit from the rack and putting it through the construction link. 40 seconds less until her next Titan was ready. Which meant all she had to do was survive for twenty when she hit the ground. She landed amidst a squad of Grunts, the four combat cloned soldiers splintering off, covering each other as they advanced.

An IMC Titan, Atlas chassis, dashed through the Grunts' formation, Quad Rocket firing rapidly spiraling rockets, four at a time. Anna rolled, bringing her Sidewinder up to target the Titan as she readied a satchel charge. The charge flew wide, detonating early, stripping shields by about half. Micro-rockets vomited forth from her anti-Titan weapon, and the rest of those shields disappeared with astonishing rapidity. Reloading, the IMC Pilot decided to try and preserve his mount, dashing away, around the corner of a secondary generator building behind the main tower.

"Ok, your Titan's prepped for launch. Call it when ready." Sarah's voice, a canned message, played on Anna's private channel. Anna threw the locator beacon between the tower and the generator building, leaping at the wall of the former, using it as a springboard to reach the generator building with a little extra thrust from her jetpack. She sprinted west along the roof, leaping at a large hull panel suspended on massive cables that ran to a tower in a small stand of trees to the far west of the area. Halfway across the hull plating she stopped, hanging on with a grip glove and modicum of thrust from her jetpack. Her Titan was still three seconds away.

She could see the trail of fire descending from orbit, the drop casing opening like a lethal flower, ceramic heat shields burning up as they finished their descent. Her Titan was a trail of fire, thrust pack firing to slow its descent to something more survivable. The dirt track shook, a cloud of dust stirred up around her Titan's landing point, and Anna smiled, launching herself away from the hull panel she was hanging from. She landed on the roof of the cockpit, sliding down and grabbing the egress handle to swing herself into the cockpit.

The sounds of an intense battle rang out and echoed within the hull of the _Odyssey_, and Anna pushed both sticks forward, urging her mount into an agile sprint, dashing into the hull of the crashed ship. Backed into a corner, his Titan half ruined, fighting for his life, was Kristoff. She watched as his 40mm cannon spat a trio of rounds at his attackers, an Atlas and an Ogre. Then he dashed back, Slaved Warheads darting from the boxy launcher in his Titan's shoulders. The Ogre fired a cluster missile, hemming him in.

The missile slammed against a particle wall, Kristoff's Titan lowering its hand. In all this time Anna's Arc Cannon had only just finished charging. Three seconds. Lightning arced from the Ogre to the Atlas, and a cluster missile slammed into the larger Titan's rear, forcing it to turn. This, in turn, allowed Kristoff to plant six rapid-fire rounds into its reactor housing; and then turn to punch the IMC Atlas he was also facing off against.

That Titan dashed forward, using its bulk to pin Kristoff's in place. Anna could see the tell-tale blue-white glow of a reactor overload. There was no way out. Kristoff swore, managing to stagger the Ogre Anna was fighting against before the nuclear ejection destroyed him and his Titan. Anna ground her teeth, incensed. Sure, Kristoff would be back in seconds, but it was the principle of the matter. Nobody was allowed to hurt her friends like that. The ejecting pilot had also taken himself out with the explosion, the roof in that section being so low. So the target of Anna's rage became the Ogre in front of her, which was suddenly smashed backwards by a steel fist before having the last of its armour torn away by another Arc Cannon blast.

The Ogre's chaingun began to spin up, peppering her Stryder with impacts, slowly tearing at her shields. This IMC pilot was determined to fight to the very last. The chaingun was tearing at her armour, and Anna surged forwards, using all of her Titan's dash capacity. She jerked her right arm forwards on the controls, and her Titan aped the movement, steel fist crushing through the cockpit of the IMC Ogre, tearing the Pilot out, still in her command harness. She looked exactly like Elsa, and Anna was suddenly haunted by a vision of what a terrifying true death this would have been had Elsa enacted her plan just a little differently.

Blood dripped from armoured knuckles, and Anna stared at the gory remains in her Titan's fist an instant before it wrapped around the grip of her Arc Cannon. She put it out of her mind as quickly as possible. She'd executed dozens of nameless, faceless IMC Pilots before, just like this… _so why did it seem so different?_ _And why did I think about_ Elsa? But familiar voices cut across the tactical channel before she had time to answer her own questions.

"Hot damn, this intel is a goldmine, Mac!" Bish was full of enthusiasm, until he added: "But kicking the IMC out of the Frontier? That's just impossible."

"Wrong word Bish," MacAllan's voice was calm but determined. "This scenario can work, I know it. And so does Graves."

Anna started moving again, her Stryder loping along in its agile sprint, main gun sweeping left and right, searching for new targets. Bish and MacAllan were still talking over the tactical net.

"Yeah? How?"

"Let's just say that once upon a time we worked it out together," coming from MacAllan, that sounded more than a little threatening. Anna suddenly pitied the IMC. They'd forced MacAllan out of retirement once, and now he was going to make sure they wouldn't get a chance to do it again. Ever.

"Well done team! All the survivors escaped and MacAllan got the intel." Sarah's voice crackled across the tactical net. "Now chase those IMC Pilots back to their evac ships."

Anna began her run, noting that the IMC dropship would be arriving somewhere near she had first entered battle, next to the grave MacAllan had been standing over. She was still instinctively hunting for targets, a small bolt of lightning from her Arc Cannon taking out a pair of Spectres, but her mind was elsewhere, on the _Redeye_. _The medtechs and neurosci's have had more than enough time to get a pull from Elsa, right? and to get her a new body?_

"Why are we taking orders from this guy, Sarah?" Bish echoed Sarah's question from the start of the battle. "Well, he just uploaded more intel than we've grabbed in the past year. I think we might just have a chance of taking the fight back to the IMC."

"Graves once told me we could change the IMC from the inside, but it's only gotten worse." If anything, MacAllan sounded disappointed. Maybe he'd had a noble goal once, but it had proven impossible. Maybe he'd seen the problem, and been powerless to change it. Or maybe he'd just gotten tired of fighting. Whatever his reasons, he was fighting for the Militia now—the IMC was a lost cause.

"Call the shot Mac, where to next?" Bish spoke as Anna prepared to manually engage her Ripcord system. No sense staying on the field here. The battle was done, it had no further need of Pilots or Titans. Just before she hit the Pull, Anna heard MacAllan's intended target, and felt her breath catch in her throat.

"Angel City."

* * *

Elizabeth Stroud groaned loudly, theatrically, even. Because she had a visitor. A young, petite, feisty and annoying kind of visitor. One that also seemed to lack any fear—but that might have been because they were both now in cosmetic clones. Elsa had seen herself in the mirror earlier, nothing special, just bland faced, bland looking clone, moderately attractive, modestly endowed, but brown eyes… at least she'd had time to dye her hair so _something_ was right. The medical personnel had promised her a clone in days—she'd expected weeks, but apparently the Militia had better gene-tailoring than even the top IMC scientists. That, or the IMC had been lying to them about the difficulty of creating and maintaining cosmetic clones. _Now there's a pleasant thought for keeping your crazy super-soldier population in line…_

The annoying ginger ball of barely repressed energy held out her hand in a gesture of greeting, forcing Elsa to sit up so she could shake it properly. Once. _Can't she take a fucking hint? I wanted to be left alone._ But apparently that was no longer an option, because the young woman in front of her was now explaining that not only was she being watched—and that that was the redhead's responsibility—but that they would also be roommates. _If she snores, I'll smother her,_ Elsa decided silently, not sure quite how serious she was.

Miss Corazon took her on a grand tour, and although the layout was different to the IMC vessels she was used to, the _Redeye_ was not a maze. Everything was clearly marked, and the crew seemed polite enough, making way as the ginger menace plowed past them, all smiles and elbows. She got jostled a fair bit in return, but it didn't seem to bother her. Until an absolute mountain of a man ran into her, pressing her back to the wall. Elsa watched in bemusement as her guide kissed this giant's cheek and wrapped him in a bear hug—which got tight enough for him to gently pry her away.

"Ease up there feistypants, I only died like twice? Three times?" and here he received a solid thump against his chest. It didn't seem to faze him at all. "Okay then, try and break my ribs you violent little spitfire. Just remember whose up there to save your ass." The ginger pouted as he left, mockingly hurt. He inclined his head towards Elsa, offering a word of greeting, which she was forced to return. He continued on his way as if nothing had happened. He understood her desire for solitude.

"So anyway," Elsa's erstwhile guide said, opening one of many nondescript hatches along the crew corridor. "These are my quarters. Second bed folds out from the wall above mine. Communal bathing facilities. Sorry."

That was when Elsa started to notice the mess. It was like Corazon's personal effects had been loaded into a bomb and blasted throughout the room. A comment to that effect elicited only a shrug. Then there was the decor—not at all what she had been expecting. Front and centre, above the bed, was a large poster of a mechanic working on part of an Atlas. Shin coupling and shock dampers if Elsa recalled her tech manual correctly. But it wasn't what was in the picture, but rather what wasn't. The mechanic wasn't particularly busty, but she wasn't particularly clothed in that area either. Grease was smeared against her face and arms in a way that suggested maybe she had worked mechanical once or twice. She sat on an upturned supply crate, one hand resting on the ring end of a massive spanner; her other arm crossing her thigh, as if she were leaning forward to confide some raucous tale or secret nugget of wisdom.

"You like her too?" Corazon asked, sitting on her bed, leaning against the wall, stripped to the waist. Her zip-up fatigues were tied arm over arm at her waist, and she wore only a modest bra. Sweat beaded against her skin, her shoulders, chest, and face. It was hot in the small room, and Elsa urgently recalled the technicians note about the aircon still not working properly after all the damage the ship had taken over Yuma—damage she had helped to inflict, at least in part. There was sink in here at least, and a mirror—and a fold out toilet with a sliding partition for privacy. Elsa shook her head, splashing some water from the sink against her face. It was too damned hot.

"Hey, Elsa—Elizabeth—I–I asked you a question…" Elsa frowned. Corazon had been all bluster and confidence before, so why did her voice have that tremble—and why had she tried to sound firm then changed her tone almost immediately? Elsa wasn't sure, but maybe she was afraid of being too obvious, too forward about things. So Elsa shrugged off her own ill-fitting fatigues, leaving on her t-shirt, and leant nonchalantly against the wall opposite the bed.

"So you did, Corazon," Elsa spoke quietly, and somehow earned a quiet huff from the other young woman and Pilot across from her. "I don't like her. She's a fake. I doubt she ever worked in a 'shop more than a day or tow for that shoot."

"You'd be wrong, then—and call me Anna. Please."

"I'd be wrong, _Corazon_, please, enlighten me."

"That's Jessika Noble."

"…shit." Elsa took a closer look at the picture, trying to ignore the provocative posing. The face was right, and there was the left eye, just a shade too dark, nearly invisible seams running around the iris. The mother of the neural interface. Posing for some mens magazine, probably hounded by thousands of admirers and male colleagues to do just one picture like that. Maybe this Corazon was deeper than she looked.

"That's what most of them say. She pioneered the neural interface tech thirty years ago, feedback destroyed her left eye, and that accident later took out two of the fingers on her right hand." At that Corazon stood, tapping the index and middle finger, resting over the giant spanner. "Right there. You can just see the seams around the flesh-synthetic interface barrier."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Rumour says she could do some _interesting_ things with those fingers." With the stress Corazon had put on 'interesting', Elsa assumed she was trying to be sultry. It just sounded a little too excited, too breathy, to be properly sultry. And then she realized that the other young woman was trying to be sultry for her benefit. _Oh_, was all she could think, struck by the revelation. _Oh, she's gay too—and doesn't mind sharing—interesting_. And Elsa put her own, very personal stress upon that word.

When she closed her eyes, trying to think, to process everything, a vision of Corazon danced in front of her. It danced in front of her and started undressing. She blinked, opening her eyes. _What the fuck is wrong with me? I don't even like her—she won't leave me alone_. It was that simple, a fact she might take for granted with someone else, but which Corazon seemed determined to prove just by existing, by being her main point of contact.

_She won't leave me alone._


End file.
